


Fragments

by dillonmania



Category: DCU (Comics), The Flash (Comics)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, Mental Health Issues, Original Character(s), Prison, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2020-01-15
Packaged: 2021-02-18 07:37:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21840637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dillonmania/pseuds/dillonmania
Summary: Someone's taken an interest in the would-be assassin of the president-elect.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 8





	Fragments

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place a few months after the events of "Presidential Race" in Flash v2 #120-121, the end of which left Roscoe ["incoherent"](https://i.imgur.com/0VnfkCC.jpg).

“You'll want to be careful with that one,” a guard warned as the woman stepped gingerly towards the cell and peered through its viewing window. A man sat on the floor with his head tilted downward, and she frowned.

“So I’ve heard. The senator is convinced he’s a supervillain, and he tried to assassinate the president-elect a few months back,” she said.

“Yeah, all of that, and he’s bugshit crazy. Babbles a lot, but never in full sentences. Hasn’t tried to kill a guard yet, but we don’t take any chances with him.”

“Thank you, I’ll take that under advisement,” she replied calmly, and opened the cell door. The prisoner looked up, and his hollow gaze seemed to stare right through her.

“Hello, Mr. O’Neill. My name is Angela Molinaro, and I’m here to talk to you,” she announced in an even tone, and he scowled intensely.

“Not O’Neill. _Roscoe Dillon_ ,” he said with obvious irritation, at which she smiled. There was more than a hint of condescension in that smile, though he didn’t seem to notice.

“You’ve said that, Mr. O’Neill, but your DNA’s been tested and the results were quite conclusive about your identity. Why do you think you’re a criminal who’s been dead for years?”

He frowned and stared studiously at the floor in front of him, beginning to rock slightly. “Told doctors. Possessed body. Not O’Neill.”

“That’s science fiction, Mr. O’Neill, and this is the real world. Why don’t we talk about why you want to be someone else?”

His head suddenly whipped up to look at her and his eyes almost burned with rage, causing her to take a step back.

“Not believed!” he barked, spittle flying. “Not O’Neill! Roscoe Dillon!”

The door behind her quickly opened and the guard was standing there with obvious concern. “Okay ma’am, we need you to come out of there before you get hurt.”

“Right,” she agreed, and quickly darted out of the cell as the door was slammed shut, taking a long moment to breathe. “I…I think I’ll need to approach this differently tomorrow. He’s a bit more intimidating than I’d expected.”

“Yeah, can you believe he got people to vote for him? A lot less charming now, that’s for sure.”

“Yes…” she mused as she walked down the hall, not wanting to admit how much her heart was pounding.

***

“Hello,” Angela greeted the prisoner the following day, careful not to use any particular name with him. “How are you today? Feeling any better?”

“No,” he muttered, looking at the floor again. “Yes. Maybe. Not O’Neill.”

She smiled, doing her best to seem friendly and non-judgmental. “I understand.” She held out a pad of paper and some acrylic paints which had been hidden behind her back during her arrival; there were no brushes, as the prison authorities were concerned about their use as weapons. “Do you like to paint?”

He glanced up quickly at the art supplies, scowled, and turned his gaze back to the floor. “Not child.”

“People of all ages enjoy painting! It’s a wonderful way to express yourself, and you must be wanting to do something in here.”

At this he turned and looked at her intently, although without making eye contact. He seemed to be looking at her hairline rather than her eyes, she surmised, and was clearly thinking carefully about something. She hoped his intentions were benign.

“Yes,” he finally said, and reached for the supplies. Without a word, he squirted some of the paint onto a piece of paper and began aimlessly running his fingers through it, making more mess than art.

“What are you painting?” she finally asked after five minutes of silence, looking curiously at the smears of paint and trying to discern any meaning in them.

“Nothing. Not-thing.”

“Are you enjoying yourself?”

“No.”

She crouched on the floor to get down to his level, although cautiously kept her distance from him. “I was thinking you could paint something important to you. Or maybe you’d like to talk about it instead.”

His eyes narrowed suspiciously, and he pointed at his chest. “Roscoe Dillon.”

“So you’ve said. Why do you think that?”

“Am it!” he muttered with frustration as he balled his fists. “Never listen!”

“I’m listening now. Can you tell me?”

An expression of intense irritation crossed his face, and he began painting furiously with one finger as she watched. The art was crude by necessity of the medium, but a screaming face soon took shape.

“And what does that mean?” she asked him with a slight frown.

“Dead. Hell.”

“So you believe you died and went to Hell?”

“I did!” he shouted angrily, throwing one of the tubes of paint at her. It splattered on her blouse and she decided it was time to leave before the situation got worse, but she felt a certain amount of satisfaction about hearing him use a personal pronoun for the first time. That seemed like real progress, however confusing its details might be.

***

It was several days before Angela went back to see the prisoner again, but this time he took the art supplies without any coaxing and busied himself by painting apparent nonsense.

“What is it?” she asked curiously after he’d been working for ten minutes, and was rewarded with his first proud smile.

“Tops.”

“Oh! Okay,” she mused, now able to see them. They were somewhat distorted, but recognizable now that it had been pointed out.

“Yes. Roscoe Dillon,” he said firmly with a finger pointed at himself, and she decided to take advantage of the opening.

“I understand. Tell me more about that.”

“Died. Came back. In jail.”

“Why are you in jail? What happened?” She knew why, of course, but wanted to see what he said about it.

He looked up at the ceiling. “Killed O’Neill. Tried to kill Cartwright.” There was a bit of shame evident in his affect, but not much. If anything, he seemed defiant about it.

“And then something happened to you, to make you disassociate,” she prodded. _It doesn’t seem to be guilt, but…_

“Don’t want to talk about it. I don’t.”

She frowned and made a concerned face. “What should I call you?”

“Roscoe.”

In for a penny and in for a pound, and time for a tremendous leap of faith. “Okay, Roscoe. Tell me about yourself.”

“Died. Died. I died. Came back.”

“Why?”

He looked at her incredulously, as though she was remarkably stupid. “Hell. Awful. Worse than this.”

“And then what happened?”

“Too many questions.”

“Okay, you got me there,” she smiled, and watched quietly as he began painting again. Another screaming face appeared on the page, and soon another, and still yet more.

“That’s a lot of distress,” she observed in an impassive tone, and the glance he gave her seemed witheringly pained.

“Yes. Hell.”

She laughed a bit at this; clearly, he was more lucid than she’d thought. He was rocking himself with some agitation again, but there seemed a coherence to him which she hadn’t noticed before.

“What happened, Roscoe?”

“Tired. Time for rest.”

“You’re not tired. Tell me.”

He silently lay down in his place on the floor and curled into a ball of feigned sleep, so the guard opened the door and she had no choice but to admit defeat in this apparent battle of wills. She left the cell with some reluctance, but vowed that this wouldn't be the end of the conversation.

***

Angela found her subject impatient to paint again when she returned a week later, which she took as a win. He snatched the art supplies from her hands and began painting quietly with a finger while she waited for an opportunity to question him further.

“How are you?” she finally asked, though he did not look up from his work.

“Good. Not dead.”

“No, fortunately not. Do you want to tell me what happened to Thomas O’Neill?”

Silence reigned for several minutes, but she was determined to wait him out and not change the subject.

“Died. I let him die,” he finally answered in a matter-of-fact tone.

“Why did you do that?”

“Needed new body.”

“I don’t understand.” 

He took a deep breath and looked down at the floor, his rocking becoming increasingly more intense. “Escaped Hell, but no body. Can’t talk without physical body. Missed being alive and needed useful host…I knew Tommy when child and suited my purposes…so I possessed him. He could not survive.” The strain of all those words was evident and he looked drained by the exertion, with several beads of sweat forming on his forehead. “Now you believe me?”

“I…think I do,” she replied after a few moments’ thought, unsure of what else to say. It would certainly be a strange delusion to have, and if nothing else, he seemed determinedly earnest about such a terrible claim. It was shocking and she shook her head. He smiled wearily, pleased to have gotten someone to listen.

“But Roscoe, what happened to your speech? Can you tell me why you’re talking like this now?” she asked, and his smile vanished.

“No reason.”

She gave him a hard stare. “I think we both know that’s not true.”

“I…” he began and trailed off, frantic rocking beginning anew and looking distinctly uncomfortable. “Tell you tomorrow.”

“Okay. Tomorrow,” she agreed with some reluctance, though it was obvious he was distressed and there was always the possibility of another outburst. She picked up the art supplies and walked out, figuring that limiting access to them was the best way to get him to talk, and glanced back through the viewing window after the door closed behind her. His stare seemed haunted.

***

She strode into the cell first thing the next morning, all brisk and ready for business, though the prisoner didn’t seem any more eager to talk. He reached mutely for the art supplies and began to paint more of the screaming faces with an unhappy expression as she waited and tapped her foot.

“Roscoe. You said you’d tell me what happened,” she finally declared, and he silently handed her the painting.

She looked at it critically, seeing more of the same. “This isn’t an explanation.”

“Told you.”

“No, you’ve painted what you always draw, and it doesn’t tell me anything.”

His gaze turned intently to the floor, hands clenched tightly into fists.

“I died. Rogues died,” he began slowly. “I came back, they came back. I was alone, they came after me. They weren’t back like me, they weren’t right. They were…evil. Unnatural. I told them to stay away, they came after me.” He hunched himself over and huddled in place, his eyes squeezed shut. 

“All five of them approached me, their hands were cold and their eyes were red. I screamed, but they were grabbing at me, tugging at my arms and clothes and face and then shoved me out of the way so they could take back their weapons. They were not human, they were more like demons from Hell than people. I’ve been tortured by demons, and that brought it all back…they were my friends once.”

He breathed heavily, gasping and letting out a shuddering moan as he relived it. Angela couldn’t bring herself to comfort him -- she knew what he had done to people like Thomas O’Neill -- but was at a loss for what to say.

“That must have been horrible,” she finally responded after some moments of silence, still rather stunned. “I can see why you were traumatized.”

“Yes.” He was trembling and unable to meet her gaze. “It was hard to talk about, but drawing it and telling it and finally having someone listen has helped a bit. Thank you.”

She smiled thinly and stood up. “I’m glad. You can keep the paints and paper.”

Angela turned towards the door and began walking away, and he finally looked up at her. “Where are you going? Can we talk some more?”

She stopped and turned around for just a moment. “I’m very sorry, but I’ve got a report to write. I hope things get better for you.”

“Aren’t you coming back?” There was genuine dismay in his voice, and he began to look fearful.

“Maybe! Keep painting.”

She briskly opened the cell door and stepped out into the hall. The door soon slammed shut behind her and the guard turned the key in the lock with a certain finality, glancing at her with a quizzical look.

“How’d it go, ma’am?”

“I obtained what I was tasked to find,” Angela said as they walked out of the prison wing. “My superiors wondered what had caused him to regress verbally and were essentially curious about what’s going on in his head, and I believe I found the answer. I even got him to open up and start speaking somewhat normally again. Hopefully that'll last, but it wasn’t really my objective here.”

“Nice work,” the guard replied admiringly. “Maybe we can finally get more than one or two words outta him when the warden questions him.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Why does the warden question him?”

“Uh, just routine for the super-powered whackjobs,” he said quickly, aware he might have spoken too freely. But that had nothing to do with her mandate and she put it out of her mind. She had that report to write, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> For those who may or may not have read the original comics, [here's what the soulless Rogues did to Roscoe to leave him incoherent](https://i.imgur.com/fRe2Qy6.jpg). Whatever traumatic thing they did wasn't specified, but this was the reason Roscoe was insane through much of Johns' run until he added the Zatanna retcon. The effects of it lasted a long time.


End file.
